


Wasteland Scripture: Private Prayers

by Owlship, Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Wasteland Weekend Folk Religion
Genre: Crack, Masturbation, Other, Pining, dirt kink?????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 10:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20864606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlship/pseuds/Owlship, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel
Summary: As per tradition, we "helped" in a Wasteland Weekend holy war by writing smut about the feuding tribes' gods. The Rustorationists, devotees of Dation God of Filth, were unable to attend this year so we made do with some pining. Sexy pining.





	Wasteland Scripture: Private Prayers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Third Book of the Wasteland: Cleanliness Beneath Godliness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12288027) by [bookwyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwyrm/pseuds/bookwyrm), [Jaetion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaetion/pseuds/Jaetion). 

> This sucker got written not at the event itself (we lost track of time) but in the airport surrounded by normal folk who didn't sign up for this shit. Sorry y'all.

It was good to be back in from the desert, but despite being the God of Cleanliness Clor couldn't bring himself to cleanse himself just yet, in either body or mind.

Instead he lay down on his pure white bed and, after long moments of resistance, gave in and took himself in hand. He squeezed shut his eyes and tried to summon the memory of Dation, God of Rust and antithesis of everything he himself stands for. Dation’s filthy hands and the defiling touch they had delivered to Clor's very being. His mouth, the sharp teeth that had broken through Clor's perfect, unblemished skin and left little pinpricks of oozing ichor that had ached for days, recalling the memory of being defiled to Clor's mind.

Clor gripped himself more firmly and tried to focus his thoughts on the last time he'd seen Dation, on the disgustingly arousing things they'd done together. On the sound Dation had made when Clor bestowed his spirit of cleanliness across Dation's lips. His moan had been reverent, as if Dation had received it as a sacrament. As if he'd been cleansed, even a little, even if only for a moment. Clor liked the thought that he'd left an unblemish on his opposite.

Yet even with the memory hot and urgent in his thoughts, Clor's magic eraser wouldn't come to full readiness. A sour wash of embarrassment took Clor when he remembered fruitlessly waiting for Dation. Clor had gone to the desert, the filthy, dusty wasteland where Dation was worshiped, hoping to see him. He'd gone through that debasement, accepted the dirt, just to see Dation. It had smelled of him, especially around the blue cubicles littered across the plains. But the God of Filth had not come. And consequently, neither had Clor... and now he couldn't seem to manage it on his own either.

To his shame here he was back in his sterile bastion, between his bleached white sheets, but he himself was still not cleansed. He could feel the wasteland dirt in his crevices, the grime under his fingernails, the lingering smell of the porta-potties in his hair. He hadn't decontaminated yet, had slid between his crisp white sheets hoping to recall the long-ago sensation of Dation's rusty fingernails, the decay of his touch. Clor had knowingly submitted himself to the clinging filth of that wasted land, only to be disappointed.

Wherever Dation might be - Clor was sure there were good reasons for his absence - Clor hoped he was longing as much for Clor as he was. Wished that Dation could see him now, filthy, debased, dirtying his sheets and, he realized with an inhale of pure crisp air that didn't smell even the slightest bit foul, suddenly rock hard at the idea of being witnessed staining sheets in his neediness for Dation.

He groaned and rubbed the length of his shaft of cleanliness, the grit of the desert trapped under his palm. It wasn't the same, but having that bit of filth touching him where before Dation he'd only ever been clean made pleasure burn through him, lighting him from within. "Dation," he moaned, turning his head into the dirty marks on his pillow, breathing deep to capture any hint of the God of Decay's scent. "_Sully_ me..."

His hand worked frantically over his throbbing magic eraser, the friction only more delicious for the shamefulness of enjoying such filth without even Dation's presence. Clor wondered if Dation was thinking of him, longing for his cleansing touch as much as Clor was aching to be soiled by Dation's caresses.

The sensations built up in him until they overflowed, and with a cry of Dation's name Clor blessed his sheets with his holy bleach. He fell back against his pillows, no longer reveling in the feeling of the dirt clinging to him. He'd have to decontaminate soon, erase the remainders of the filth from his spotless sanctuary. For now though he contented himself with the hope of seeing Dation next year.

Maybe Dation would even let Clor cleanse the portos.


End file.
